Tag: Patricia Wellingham-Jones

My brilliant and balding father had interests tending to the cerebral but in those years when my...

The little girl in a red shirt led me straight to her Thicket, stood outside its shrouded door,...

Nicknamed Aspirin, the camp nurse liked to hang out in the lodge kitchen up to her elbows in...

The ’51 Studebaker cranked around hair-pin turns, swooped through crossings, out-ran stray...

Too young for bras, big enough to roam free, we tracked the boys in silence to their hideout in...